


Doomed from the Start

by peachcitt



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, POV Jonathan Sims, POV Martin Blackwood, POV Third Person Limited, Self-Indulgent, and that's somehow more important to the plot than i thought it'd be, but it's okay because they have the power of love and friendship on their side, jon also gets drunk, jon is repressed, jon used to be in a band, librarian jonathan sims, listen im just. sad and i wanted something funny and nice, they're. they're high school teachers, tim and sasha are power bffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcitt/pseuds/peachcitt
Summary: "Really, Jon, you need friends,” Georgie said.Jon opened his mouth.“I don’t count."Jon closed his mouth.orjon starts his job as the new librarian at magnus high school. he is roped into friendship by the too-nice people who work there, particularly one martin k. blackwood.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 109
Kudos: 711





	Doomed from the Start

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy :)

The first emotion Martin felt upon seeing Jonathan Sims for the first time was curiosity. The reason for it was, he felt, absolutely justified because the man with perhaps the blandest name aside from  _ John Smith  _ was showing up to his first day at an underfunded and understaffed London highschool wearing a three-piece suit and honest-to-Christ leather gloves. Martin had been across the staff room at the time Elias had been proudly announcing their newest addition to the Magnus High School faculty, but he was reasonably certain he’d seen the glint of a pocket watch chain dangling primly from his waistcoat pocket.

“I’m gonna say it,” Tim said lowly in the general direction of Sasha. “This dude looks like a prick.”

“Oh, stop it,” Sasha said, giving Tim a soft backhand to the shoulder. She was smiling, though, and Martin got the idea that she agreed.

And it’s not really like Martin could really  _ disagree,  _ per se. Even putting aside the three-piece suit and the honest-to-Christ leather gloves, Jonathan Sims looked, even from a distance, as if he was perpetually smelling something awful. His features, just left of handsome, were marred by furrowed eyebrows and a distasteful frown. He looked down his sharp nose at the collection of instructors in the room, nodded his head once, said “if you need me, email me,” looked at Elias for permission, and then left.

After that, Martin saw Jonathan Sims exactly twice in passing over the span of three days. Both times, he smiled as cheerily as he knew how in an attempt to establish some sort of kinship between them. Both times, Jonathan Sims had received those smiles with a confused sort of nod, as if Martin’s frankly mediocre nicety was something that he could not even begin to understand. 

Martin decided that he would like to get to know the strange man in the three-piece suits and honest-to-Christ leather gloves, if only to figure out what his deal was. Because really, he had to have a deal. No one who worked at a high school and looked so put together every day  _ didn’t  _ have a deal.

  
  


-

  
  


The first emotion Jon felt upon meeting Martin K. Blackwood was suspicion. The reason for it, he knew, was unreasonably illogical, but he couldn’t help but narrow his eyes when the soft looking man wearing a literal sweater vest with beige diamond patterns and actual corduroy pants called himself Martin K. Blackwood as if that name was one that belonged to someone who was at that current moment in time holding a mug that had a cartoon dinosaur in a tutu playing golf on it.

It wasn’t like Jon could articulate it into words at that moment, after he’d just finished watching this supposed Martin K. Blackwood squeeze out minimum two tablespoons of honey into his green tea from the honey bear bottle after shoveling at least four scoops of sugar into the poor mixture. It was just that at that moment, he got the strangest feeling that the name Martin K. Blackwood did not fit this man standing in front of him because the man standing in front of him was not… cool enough. Which was absurd. Jon knew that. 

“Pleasure,” Jon replied, nodding his head cordially to Martin K. Blackwood. “Jonathan Sims, newly hired librarian.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Martin K. Blackwood said with a little laugh. It was a nervous sort of laugh, though. Like he had become anxious over this exchange of niceties all of the sudden. “I was there when Elias introduced you to everyone.”

“Right,” Jon said, nodding. He picked up his own plain mug of regular black tea. It was done, and there really was no reason for him to still be in the lounge instead of working, but Martin K. Blackwood was looking at him expectantly, and Jon felt that their conversation was, for some reason, not over. “Did you… need something?”

“Oh!” Martin K. Blackwood said, waving his hand that was holding his mug. Jon watched the no doubt saccharine green tea nearly slosh over the edge of the mug. “No, no, not right now, at least. I just figured I should introduce myself given that I am one of the literature instructors. We’ll probably see a lot of each other from now on, you know?”

“Ah,” Jon said. “Well,” he said. He nodded his head again. “Be seeing you.”

Martin K. Blackwood’s face fell as Jon scurried out of the lounge, and it was only as he was attempting to scrape an unknown brown substance off of one of the recently returned books that he realized that he probably should’ve made a better attempt at being cordial to his new colleague, no matter how suspicious his name was.

  
  


-

  
  


“I had those students - you know the ones - making weird jokes about an albatross? And-and some sort of pirate?” Sasha said, peeling the plastic wrap off of her burrito and turning accusatory eyes at Martin. “It was like they were role-playing, Martin. What did you  _ do?” _

“Come to think of it,” Tim said, mixing in the dressing to his rather colorful and Pinterest-worthy salad, “I snatched up a note passed between those students - the same ones - that was some sort of poem about an old man and a wedding guest. I read it in front of the whole class, as is customary, but  _ I  _ felt more like the idiot because those little weirdos laughed like it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard.”

“I didn’t  _ do  _ anything,” Martin replied, watching his leftovers from the night before spin lazily around in the microwave. “It’s just that yesterday was the start of Samuel Taylor-Coleridge week, and things tend to get weird with him around. We started The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and those kids really liked it.”

“Did you make them wear those paper hats again?” Tim asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t  _ make  _ them do anything,” Martin replied. “But yes. They made their paper sailor hats and wore them while we read.”

“God, you should’ve told me it was Ancient Mariner season. Remind me to drop by tomorrow during one of your lessons,” Sasha said. “I always love seeing you chant old poetry to a room full of dead-eyed teenagers wearing paper sailor hats.”

“It  _ engages  _ them in the lesson.”

Tim opened his mouth, no doubt to say some sort of quip about the value of paper sailor hats in a literature class, when Jonathan Sims walked into the lounge. Tim promptly shut his mouth, and Jonathan Sims froze.

He was holding what was presumably an empty mug, and he looked as if he was deeply uncomfortable. 

“Hey, Jon,” Sasha said lightly, and Martin saw her kick Tim hard in the shin while keeping an airy smile on her face.

Jonathan Sims - who, it seemed, was alright with being called ‘Jon’ - nodded stiffly, still apparently frozen in the doorway. “Hello,” he said, moving his dark eyes between the three of them. Sasha kicked Tim again.

“How’s the library business going?” Tim asked, hiding his wince with a smile.

Jon shifted on his feet, and Martin got the sense that he was trying very hard to think through the words he was going to say. “The library is… not as organized as I assumed it would be.”

“Well, you know,” Tim said with a rather charming shrug. “High schoolers are savages.”

“Hm,” Jon hummed. He didn’t say anything more than that. The microwave timer beeped, and Martin jumped, extracting his steaming food as Jon seemed to realize why he had come to the lounge in the first place. He came over to the coffee maker beside the microwave, filling it up with water and leaving his mug underneath the dispenser.

Martin stood awkwardly, holding his plate of food in his hands and looking at Jon. He was wearing his customary three-piece suit - a respectable gray - and his hair was tucked smartly behind his ears and tied neatly into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. The gray shocking through the black curls was in contrast to his unlined face, but it seemed to fit him, somehow. He looked back at Martin, dark eyes deep and shining. He raised his eyebrows.

“Did you need something, Mr. Blackwood?” he asked, and Martin heard Tim disguise a snort as a cough.

“Oh, um, no. And just Martin is fine, you know,” Martin said, feeling his cheeks grow hot. The face that he’d perceived as just left of handsome at first sight was just right of handsome closer up, he was starting to realize. Paired with those dark eyes and that impatient look, Martin felt himself start to sweat. “It was just. Food,” he said rather dumbly. “We’re all- we’re all having lunch now, so if you’d like. You could join us? That is, if you haven’t eaten already.”

“I have far too much work to do,” Jon replied, actually checking his pocket watch - like, fully going through the motions of taking it out of his waistcoat pocket, clicking it open, looking discontentedly at its face, clicking it closed, and then returning it to his pocket - before looking impatiently at the coffee maker behind him, which had begun whirring rather loudly as it attempted to produce hot water.

“Ah. Of course,” Martin said, and even he could hear how disappointed he sounded, which was absurd, really. He took a deep breath and put a smile on his face. “Well, it can’t be helped, then.”

Jon tore his eyes away from the coffee maker, his eyebrows furrowing at Martin like Martin was being exceptionally hard to read at the moment. He pursed his lips, and Martin felt as if he saw the gears turning in his head as his jaw clenched. “Perhaps,” Jon started a little haltingly, as if he knew the words he was about to say would physically pain him, “some other time.”

“Really?” Sasha blurted from the tiny, wobbly table in the lounge. Both she and Tim seemed to have been watching the painfully awkward scene unfolded before them in what looked like hardly concealed amusement. “You aren’t just saying that?”

“Sasha!” Martin exclaimed. Tim laughed, a burst straight from his stomach that he’d no doubt been valiantly attempting holding back.

Jon looked even more deeply uncomfortable than he had upon entering the lounge. He glanced back at the coffee maker, as if it might save him. He cleared his throat. “Of course I mean it.”

Tim clicked his tongue. “You hesitated, Jon.”

“I did not,” Jon snapped back even though everyone knew he had.The coffee maker behind him finally started to dispense hot water, and Jon snatched it away from the dispenser almost before it had finished its task. “Now, then,” he said, straightening out his suit jacket even though it had already been rather neat. “Be seeing you.” He started to hurry out of the lounge.

“What about a tea bag?” Martin asked, and Jon halted midway out of the door, looking down at the hot water in his mug.

“I have some at. At my desk. In the library. Bye.” He left.

Martin sat down at the table. He took a breath. “Do you think he  _ actually  _ has-?”

“No,” Tim and Sasha replied simultaneously.

  
  


-

  
  


“I’m starting to think it would physically kill you to be nice to your coworkers,” Georgie said, watching Jon make a fuss over checking in the books in the return cart.

“Really, it’s not that bad,” Jon said, sliding a book rather aggressively underneath the scanner before slamming it onto the re-shelf cart.

“Melanie said that in the first two days alone there were already thirty rumors about how unapproachable you are,” she said, and Jon winced. “And a lot of them had to do with the gloves and the suit. I mean,  _ really,  _ Jon. Gloves  _ and  _ a suit?”

“The gloves would look weird if I just wore them with a regular blazer,” Jon grumbled.

“So then ditch the gloves. You’re acting as if it’s rocket surgery.”

Jon jammed another book onto the re-shelf cart. “I’d rather not  _ ditch the gloves.  _ Shouldn’t Melanie be done with her club by now?”

“She said it was going to run late and that she’d meet me here.” Jon shot her a look. She threw her hands up. “At least befriend Melanie, for God’s sake! She should be the easiest to get to know.”

“Yes, but I don’t think she  _ wants  _ to get to know me. And that’s fine.” He checked in the last book and then stood up, wheeling the cart out from behind the front desk to begin reshelving them. Georgie trailed behind him.

“Of course she wants to get to know you,” she said, sounding as if she was trying very hard to convince herself of this. Jon gave her a look. “Okay, so maybe she’s a little hesitant. But I know you two would get along, and really, Jon, you need  _ friends.” _

Jon opened his mouth.

_ “I  _ don’t count,” Georgie said.

Jon closed his mouth. He pushed the cart over to the fiction section, silently fuming.

“After that thing happened and you ghosted everyone in the band-”

“They didn’t even like me that much anyway-”

“You stopped, you know, reaching out?” Georgie continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And then you quit your job at the institute as a freaking archivist to work  _ here.  _ And that’s not bad at all, I mean, Melanie really likes it here, but it really feels like.” She stopped, watching Jon stare hard at the disorganized shelves so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. “It just feels like you’re trying to cut yourself off.”

Jon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, the smooth leather doing little to center him. “If I really wanted to cut myself off, Georgie, do you think I would’ve gone to a place I knew you could’ve easily found me?” he asked, gesturing vaguely around to the library.

“Maybe not,” she admitted, crossing her arms, “but even still. You can’t work here and be your mopey, grumpier-than-thou self forever. Melanie says the people here are  _ nice,  _ and you need a little nice.”

“What I  _ need  _ is peace and quiet,” Jon said, pushing the cart further down the aisle. Georgie followed.

“You  _ need _ to let loose, and get out of your head,” she said, and Jon rolled his eyes. That’s what she said in college when she’d somehow managed to convince him to make one of his more flamboyant and prolonged mistakes, and he was not about to let that happen again.

“Georgie, I’m not joining another band.”

There was a choked off noise of surprise behind them, and Jon turned to find Mr. Blackwood - Martin - standing at the start of the aisle, holding a stack of books in his arms. Jon felt mortification crawl slowly along his bones. Georgie looked annoyingly overjoyed.

“Hi,” she said cheerily, and Martin startled like some sort of jumpy hamster.

“Ah, yes, hello. I’m- I was just.” He lifted the books in his arms. “Here to check these in. I’m Martin K. Blackwood. Um, Martin.” He shifted the books and stuck out his hand. Georgie shook it heartily.

“I’m Georgie, Jon’s friend.”

Martin blinked in surprise, as if someone calling themselves Jon’s friend was something to be surprised about. “Oh. Oh! Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Before Georgie could say anything incriminating - or make  _ him  _ say anything incriminating - Jon stepped in front of her and nodded for Martin to follow him back to the front desk. “I can help you turn those in,” he said, and Martin nodded.

“Right. Yes.”

“So how long have you worked here?” Georgie asked as Jon went behind the counter.

“Just a couple of years. Not nearly as long as Tim or Sasha - ah, Tim’s one of the maths instructors, and Sasha’s the head of the history department. They’re really quite capable, you know,” Martin replied, sounding quite pleased to be bragging about his friends. Jon took the stack of books from Martin, sliding them under the scanner.

“They sound  _ lovely,”  _ Georgie said, giving Jon a pointed look that Jon returned with a roll of his eyes when he was sure Martin wasn’t looking. “And what about you? What do you teach?”

“Oh, well. Just literature. I bounce between comprehension and analysis for year 11 and writing for the year 9’s. Elias - the big boss - is trying to convince me to take on a year 10 class next school year, but I’m not really sure yet.”

“Impressive,” Georgie crooned, shooting Jon another look as if to say  _ ‘Look, Jon! An English nerd! He probably loves reading as much as you do; be his friend!’  _ Jon looked down at the books Martin had turned in, saw that they were mostly poetry anthologies, and made a face. He tried to communicate this to Georgie, but it didn’t seem like she wanted to hear it. “You’ll have to promise to look after Jon, for me,” she said, and Jon let out a low groan.

“Georgie-”

“He really is quite sensitive, you know,” she continued, reaching over and giving Jon a pat on the shoulder that no doubt looked fond to Martin but felt extremely antagonistic to Jon. “He’s one of those extreme introverts. He desperately needs friends.”

“I am doing quite alright,” Jon said, glaring at Georgie, who simply smiled sweetly at him. “I am not in desperate need of anything except for some-”

_ “Peace and quiet,”  _ Georgie mimicked at the same time Jon said it, lowering her voice and sounding absolutely nothing like him. Martin giggled - actually giggled.

_ “That’s very childish, Georgie,”  _ Jon said, rather annoyed to find that she had managed to mimic him at the exact same time the words had left his mouth.  _ “Really, Georgie. Stop that.” _

Jon gave her a look, and she de-puffed out her chest, the scowl she’d put on to make fun of him dissolving into a grin. “He’s a regular comedian, you know,” she said, nudging Martin with her elbow. “Although his sets are a little predictable.”

Martin laughed again, that strange sort of giggle that sounded as if he was too scared to actually let out the full extent of his amusement.

_ “Georgie,”  _ Jon said, his eye twitching as she mimicked him again. He really did hate it when she did that - she always managed to do it exactly as he was speaking, no matter how long he stayed quiet for.

“I’m stopping now,” she said, waving her hand when she saw the way Jon’s fists clenched. “Just couldn’t resist one last time.”

One of the doors to the library opened, and Melanie stepped in, unfolding her walking stick and beginning to make her way to the front counter. “I hope I’m not too late to the party,” she said, cocking her head to the side as she waited for an answer.

“You are,” Georgie said at the same time Jon said “there is no party.”

“Hi, Melanie,” Martin said, his eyebrows knitting together. “What brings you here?”

“Martin,” she said, blinking in surprise. “I was just about to head out with Georgie.”

“Georgie?” Martin asked, looking between the three of them. “You mean.” He stopped. Georgie smiled. “O-oh! You’re Melanie’s Georgie as well, are you?”

“One in the same,” she said, and Melanie sighed.

“You took to making fun of Jon before saying that you were my girlfriend?” Melanie asked, and Georgie laughed.

“I did no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what she did,” Jon said, and Melanie’s lips quirked up into something that could’ve been a smile.

“Well, Jon, as much as I know Georgie wanted us to catch up, she also promised to pay for dinner tonight.”

“I did not,” Georgie told Martin, who seemed a little lost.

“I completely understand,” Jon said, and Melanie nodded sagely.

“Yes, well, there’s really nothing that can be done.”

“Nothing at all,” Jon replied.

“They really do get along quite well, don’t they?” Georgie asked Martin.

“I-I suppose?”

“Well, Georgie,” Melanie said, taking Georgie’s arm and beginning to steer her toward the exit, “dinner awaits. Catch you later Martin. Same to you, I guess, Jon.”

“Say hi to The Admiral for me,” Jon said, and Melanie waved her hand.

“Say hi to him yourself.”

“Bye, Martin,” Georgie called over her shoulder, “it really was a pleasure to meet you. And I’ll see you later, Jon.” She gave Jon one last pointed look before opening the door for Melanie and leaving.

“So,” Martin said once it was just the two of them. “I didn’t know you knew Melanie.”

“Yes, well. Only sort of,” Jon said. He had meant to stay until he had finished reshelving all of the checked in books, but now he just desperately wanted to leave. He could feel Martin’s questions practically buzzing off of him.

“And, um.” Jon braced himself. “A band, huh?” Martin asked.

“If it’s all the same to you, Martin, I really must be going home now,” Jon said, stuffing various forms and paperwork that he still needed to fill out into his bag.

“Right. Of course,” Martin said. He didn’t move. Jon kept on pretending to be in a hurry.

“Was there anything else you needed?” Jon asked, mentally writing down ‘yell at Georgie’ on his list of things to do.

“No, no, not at all,” Martin said. He bit his lip. “What did you play? For the band, I mean.”

“I really am in a rush,” Jon said. 

“Of course,” Martin said. He still wasn’t leaving. “Was it- was it bass?”

Jon felt his cheeks growing hot. If it really  _ had  _ been bass, it wouldn’t have been that bad. Bass is easy to play off. Respectable, even. “We’re not talking about this,” he said.

“Right, sure,” Martin said. 

“I’m leaving now,” Jon said, shouldering his bag, and Martin nodded like some sort of life-size bobblehead. 

“Yes, right, well, um, it was nice to. Er, thank you for” - he gestured vaguely to the books Jon had checked in for him - “and have a. Have a nice night, I suppose.”

“You as well,” Jon said, beginning to walk toward the doors. Martin still didn’t move. Jon looked at him. “I have to lock the doors,” he said, and Martin startled.

“Oh! Yes, that does make sense, doesn’t it?” He hurried over to the door Jon was closest to, opening it up and nodding amicably to him. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Right,” Jon said, although he was very much hoping that he wouldn’t see Martin again tomorrow, if only to avoid another conversation like this. “Bye, then.” 

Martin nodded again before walking down one of the hallways, his pace faster than what Jon would consider normal. Jon closed the door behind him, locking it from the inside before going over to the other door. He could stay and get more work done like he knew he should, but he’d already told Martin he was leaving. It would be awkward for Martin to leave and still see the lights on in the library.

For a moment, Jon considered turning the lights off, locking the doors and working in the dark. And then he mentally berated himself for being absurd, turned off the lights and locked the door behind him. 

  
  


-

  
  


Martin felt his hands begin to sweat despite the fact that there was no reason he should feel nervous in an empty classroom doing something that was  _ completely  _ and  _ utterly  _ natural, given the circumstances. As long as he cleared his search history before his next class and he didn’t forget, it was fine. And as long as Sasha-

“Hey, Martin, do you have any extra-”

Martin yelped, standing up and shielding his computer despite the fact that Sasha wouldn’t even be able to see it from her angle at the door. Sasha’s open expression immediately shifted to one of a calculated suspicion that made Martin’s hands begin to sweat at a frankly worrying rate.

“What are you looking at?” Sasha asked, and Martin quickly locked his computer, an action that has become very smooth and quick after a couple of years of attempting to keep Sasha from knowing every bit of his search history.

“Nothing,” Martin said, kicking himself because he  _ knew  _ he said it too quickly.

“Right,” Sasha said slowly. She inched into the room, creeping closer into the room. “Well, if it’s nothing, then I’m sure you won’t mind if I see.”

“Well, it’s really just nothing,” Martin said. “You wouldn’t even care.”

“Of course,” Sasha said, now standing in front of his desk. “So showing me wouldn’t even matter.”

“It wouldn’t. So I won’t.”

Sasha moved at a speed previously unknown to humans, dancing out of Martin’s clumsy reach and deftly typing in the password despite the fact that Martin had literally  _ just  _ changed it a couple of days ago.

“‘Jonathan Sims band London’?” Sasha asked, her face cracking open into an incredulous grin. She turned to Martin, who felt like some form of divine intervention was about to come and eviscerate him on Jon’s behalf. “Why exactly, Martin, would you be searching for ‘Jonathan Sims band London’ on this day?”

“Sasha…” Martin said, covering his face. 

“Because surely, Martin, there must be a reason. There must be a reason you are searching ‘Jonathan Sims band London.’”

“I really don’t think it’s appropriate for me to-”

“Tell me or else I’ll.” She pauses, looking around for an adequate threat. Her eyes light up, and Martin already feels himself recoil. “Or else I’ll take out all the sugar in the lounge. No more sugar in your tea.”

“I could always buy more,” Martin said petulantly, but they both knew he didn’t like making any extra expenses on his school budget for fear of being accused of some type of sugar-fraud.

“You could,” Sasha said slowly. “Or you could explain and avoid it all entirely.”

Martin weighed his options. “Okay, fine, but you can’t tell Tim.”

“I’m making no promises, but I’ll try my best.”

_ “Fine.  _ But you can’t let Jon know that you or  _ anyone else _ know,” Martin said, knowing this was probably a useless thing to make Sasha agree to. She and Tim were best friends, and Tim could never really turn away from an opportunity to make some quick joke. He just hoped he wouldn’t be around when Jon inevitably found out about Martin’s inability to keep any sort of secret.

So he told Sasha what happened the day before.

“Okay,” Sasha said after he’d finished, eerily calm. Martin felt the fear of God in him. “Give me one day.”

“Sasha, really, it’s not that big of a deal-”

“What do you think he did in it?” she interrupted. Martin fiddled with the bottom of his sweater.

“My guess is bass.”

“Really,” Sasha said, raising her eyebrows. “I’m betting lead.”

“No way,” Martin said. “He isn’t.” He stopped. He imagined Jon, with his nice, low voice. Singing. He felt himself grow hot, which he didn’t really want to unpack at the moment. “Well. What even makes you think that?”

“He’s so…” Sasha waved her hands abstractly, squinting her eyes. “Repressed. A guy like that needs an outlet. A big outlet.”

“We hardly know him,” Martin said.

“He wears a three-piece suit and leather gloves everyday.”

Martin couldn’t really argue with that.

  
  


-

  
  


Jon stood outside of the lounge, steeling himself. He told himself that he would not walk out of the lounge with only a cup of hot water to show for it. He would walk in and keep his composure, no matter what.

As expected, Martin, Tim, and Sasha were sitting at the little lounge table, sharing their lunch as he'd found out over the course of his first week they always did due to the fact that they had the same lunch periods. They went silent as soon as he walked in, and Jon wondered vaguely if he was being bullied.

He saw Martin give both Tim and Sasha pointed looks. They both seemed to ignore him.

“Good afternoon,” Jon said, acutely aware of how stiff he sounded.

“Hey, Jon,” Tim said, giving him a smile that was suspiciously disarming. Jon felt a strange sort of dread pile up in his stomach as he went over to the coffee maker and went about filling it with water. “How’s your day going?”

“Fine,” Jon said. “Uneventful.”

“Sounds great,” Tim said. “Listen. We were thinking, as friends and coworkers, that we should all hang out outside of work sometime.”

“Just go out for drinks,” Sasha suggested. “On a Friday night or something.” Jon saw her nudge Martin’s leg with the toe of her boot.

Martin winced, looking at Jon as if he was afraid he was in trouble. “You could invite a friend, if you wanted. Like, um. Well, like Georgie.”

_ “Georgie?”  _ Sasha gasped, covering her mouth in what Jon assumed was supposed to be real surprise. “You can’t mean Melanie’s Georgie, can you?” she asked, looking between Jon and Martin.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Georgie and I are friends.” 

“What a happy coincidence!” Sasha exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Really, we should all get together.”

“Oh, and you know what I really like to do with my friends and coworkers?” Tim asked. The dread was in Jon’s throat now. Martin’s guilty expression was not helping. “Karaoke.”

“Tim,” Martin said, tone warning.

“Martin,” Jon said, and Martin stiffened.

“Yes, Jon?” he asked, and Jon knew what happened the moment Martin’s eyes met his. 

Jon took a deep breath. Behind him, the coffee maker began to dispense hot water into his mug. He remembered to grab a tea bag from one of the boxes by the coffee maker. “If I go to karaoke, you’ll pay for it.”

Sasha and Tim high-fived. Martin swallowed.

“Like. In a monetary sense or. Or in a mental or physical or-or emotional sense.” 

Jon dropped his tea bag into his mug. “I really must get back to the library,” he said, and Sasha cackled.

“No, wait, Jon-”

“Be seeing you,” Jon said, smiling in a way that felt more like a wince before walking out of the lounge. He was going to throttle Georgie. And then he was going to throttle himself.

  
  


-

  
  


Martin gripped the strap of his bag, taking a deep breath before walking into the library. His hands were sweating, but that was normal now, when it came to Jon. The guy was just so hard to talk to, and no one could really blame him as he wiped his palms on his slacks before looking around the library.

Some of the lights were off, so Martin went over to where the lights were still on, peeking into each aisle before moving on to the next one.

He finally found Jon standing in the fiction section. He didn’t seem to have noticed Martin, too engrossed in squinting at the little labels on the spines of the books, gently pulling books out and placing them in what were presumably their rightful spots. He had his earbuds in as well, which told Martin that it wouldn’t really be wise to interrupt him at the moment. Jon didn’t seem like the type of person to react well to being interrupted, especially when his earbuds were in.

So Martin leaned against the shelf for a moment, watching Jon work and hoping doing so wasn’t too creepy. But really, Jon was sort of fascinating to watch. He moved so evenly, like he was always so sure what each part of his body was doing. His fingers traced smoothly over the spines of the books, careful and attendant. 

Not for the first time, Martin wondered what his hands looked like under his gloves. They were probably just normal hands - maybe he just had a germ thing, which was understandable in such a place as a high school library - but still, Martin wondered. He got the feeling Jon had nice hands, perhaps even elegant. Maybe they were knobby, like tree roots. 

“Jesus, Martin,” Jon gasped, and Martin jumped, tearing his thoughts away from Jon’s hands. He looked up from where he’d probably creepily staring to see Jon glaring at him with those dark eyes of his. Again, Martin became keenly aware of how sweaty his palms were. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” Martin said, waving his hands. “I just. Well, I didn’t really want to interrupt you. You looked very.” Hot. “Focused.”

“Oh,” Jon said, his shoulders relaxing. “Well.” It seemed almost like he was flattered that Martin commented on his work ethic. “Thank you, I suppose. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

They both stood for a second, unsure.

“Can I… help you find something?” Jon asked.

“Yes. Er. No.” Martin took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I just wanted to apologize. I mean, you know, for the karaoke thing and Tim and Sasha.”

A myriad of emotions flicked across Jon’s face ranging from dread to annoyance before his facial muscles finally seemed to settle on a tired sort of smile. “Trying to get out of paying for it, are you?” he asked, and Martin felt his face grow hot. He figured he’d have to unpack why exactly his heart skipped a beat, but also figured now was not the time.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” he said, and Jon snorted. “But I also. Well, I know you probably didn’t want the whole ‘band’ thing to get around. And I didn’t mean for it to, it’s just that keeping secrets around Sasha doesn’t really work, and she and Tim are best friends and…” Martin trailed off, waving his hands in conclusion. “You know how it is. I promise they’re the only ones who know, though. Aside from us, and maybe Melanie, I suppose.”

“Right,” Jon said, tucking his hair more tightly behind his ear. Martin watched it curl gently under Jon’s earlobe and fought to keep himself under some semblance of control. “Well, it’s my fault anyway.”

“How is this your fault?”

“For ever being in a band in the first place,” Jon replied, completely deadpan, and Martin couldn’t help but laugh. When Jon didn’t laugh with him, he stopped.

“Wait, are you serious?”

Jon shrugged, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“Well, if you are, that’s very sad. I need you to know that’s sad.”

“Martin,” Jon said, closing his eyes and sighing. It sounded less annoyed and more something else.

“And you know, you have a really wonderful singing voice. Very distinctive and, well. Nice.”

Jon looked at him. “You watched videos.” It wasn’t a question.

“The leather jackets and pants were quite nice,” Martin offered, and he didn’t think he was imagining the blush on Jon’s cheeks before he pointedly turned his face away.

“Yes. Well. It was the style.”

“A very good one, too.”

Jon looked back at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

Martin blinked. “Um. No?” He was praising him. Quite shamelessly, in fact.

Jon blinked. “Oh.” He seemed to look at Martin in a new light, or at least, a light that was slightly different than before. His gaze wasn’t so oppressive and guarded. Martin swallowed.

“I-  _ We  _ really would like to go out together, you know,” he said, feeling his heart pounding out of his chest. He hoped Jon couldn’t hear it. “I mean, you know, Tim and Sasha. They really do want to get to know you better. They’re curious about you.”

“There’s nothing to be curious about,” Jon said, tilting his head to the side. Martin laughed.

“Oh, I doubt that.” Jon furrowed his eyebrows, as if he didn’t understand how anyone could be curious about him, the guy who wore three-piece suits and leather gloves to his underpaid job at a understaffed high school and who had an honest-to-Christ pocket watch that he actually used while also having a mysterious past as a former lead singer to a punk rock band. “But I mean it. They like to joke around and have fun, and maybe that isn’t how you like things-”

“You’re literally saying to my face that you think I don’t like to joke around and have fun,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow.

“Erm. Yes?”

Jon didn’t say anything in response, but Martin got the feeling he was thinking very hard about his life. He even saw the look of acceptance cross over his face.

“I’d just like you to give them a chance, is all,” Martin finished.  _ And me, too,  _ his brain supplied unhelpfully.  _ I’d like you to give  _ me  _ a chance as well. _

“I was never  _ not  _ going to give them a chance,” Jon replied, sticking his nose up. Martin laughed a little, feeling fondness creep into his chest. “Well, anyway,” Jon said, looking back at Martin and looking quite awkward. “I know you must not want to be held up on your way out,” he said, gesturing to the bag slung over Martin’s shoulder.

Martin wondered vaguely if Jon realized he’d gone out of his way on his way out to come visit him. On purpose. He’d done so on purpose.

“So I won’t keep you long,” he continued. “Erm. Well.” He paused, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was in physical pain. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“Thank you?” Martin asked, eyes widening in surprise.

“For, um.” Jon gestured vaguely at him. “Right.”

Martin didn’t understand, but Jon looked as if he was seconds away from combusting or perhaps having a rather awful case of constipation, so he decided not to ask. “Um. Of course. Any time.”

“Cool,” Jon said. He stared at Martin. Martin stared back.

“I’ll. I’ll get going then,” Martin said, and Jon nodded.

“Right. Have a nice night.”

“You too,” Martin replied.

It was stilted, and it was awkward, but Martin felt, strangely, that progress had been made. He figured now he should probably unpack the weird feelings in his chest.

  
  


-

  
  


“So,” Georgie started, nimble fingers deftly braiding his hair, “how’s work going?”

“Tim and Sasha still tease me about being the whole band thing,” Jon said, trying his best to give Georgie a look even as she held his head in place. “And I officially met the two lacrosse coaches - Daisy and Basira. They’re nice, but they terrify me. The library somehow manages to still be a mess despite the fact that I spend every ounce of free time I have attempting to clean it. Elias wants me to take on student assistants. Martin is…” He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders. “Martin.”

“What about me?” Melanie asked from where her head was resting in Georgie’s lap.

“Ah, yes,” Jon said. “And Melanie has joined in with Tim and Sasha on teasing me for every moment I breathe.”

“Damn right,” Melanie said, and he didn’t even have to turn around to know she was smiling in that annoying self-satisfied way.

“Hm,” Georgie hummed. “It sounds like you’ve made a lot of friends.”

The Admiral, Georgie’s plump and happy cat, jumped onto Jon’s lap, purring incessantly. Jon gave The Admiral a few head scritches. “I wouldn’t say that,” Jon said, and he could feel Georgie’s aggressive eye roll at the back of his head.

“Jon, it’s been months.  _ They  _ probably think of  _ you  _ as a friend.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jon said, rubbing the pads of his fingers on the spot on The Admiral’s jaw that he really liked. “It’s just. Daisy and Basira are not really  _ friends,  _ per se, and Elias is my boss, so not really a friend, and the rest, well. That’s four people. That’s not a lot.”

“A lot more than before,” Georgie said, and it was Jon’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Interesting how you include me in your friend count,” Melanie said, and Jon scoffed.

“I’m being generous. For Georgie’s sake. You understand.”

“Of course,” Melanie replied.

“You two are ridiculous.” She tied off Jon’s braid and sat back to admire her handiwork. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re getting along with your coworkers. Especially Martin. He seemed very sweet when I met him.”

“Yeah,” Jon scoffed. “Overbearingly.”

Since that day Martin had apologized about the whole band thing, he’d begun to visit the library more often. He brought Jon tea and stayed to chat about his day, which was fine, really, but Jon had  _ work  _ to do. Sometimes during their lunch period, Martin even brought Tim and Sasha to eat lunch with him in the library. No matter how much Jon protested that there was no food technically allowed in the library, it never seemed to make them leave. Martin, it seemed, was an aggressively kind friend.

And Jon was weary of those kinds of friends, purely because of Georgie.

“Overbearingly,” Georgie repeated. “Explain.”

Jon shrugged. “He’s just so. I don’t know.  _ Nice.  _ He’s too nice. I think he might be secretly making fun of me.”

That caused Melanie to burst out into a fit of laughter that Jon knew was entirely at his expense.  _ “Really,  _ Jon?  _ Martin?  _ Making fun of you?”

“You know, Jon, people can just  _ like  _ you,” Georgie said, flicking the back of his neck, and Jon flinched away.

“Yes, right, whatever,” he grumbled. He looked down at his right hand, resting on The Admiral’s soft fur. He flexed his fingers, the skin marred and puckered across his palm and the back of his hand. He remembered the lick of the flames, how it felt to have his skin burn, and he closed his eyes, stroking his fingers through The Admiral’s fur.

  
  


-

  
  


“There’s no way it’s happening before the end of the school year,” Tim said, taking a hearty slurp from his cup of strong breakfast tea.

“I don’t know,” Sasha said, sounding very much like she  _ did  _ know. “Jon’s looking quite soft recently. I even saw him loosen his tie last week.”

“That’s bull,” Tim said with a laugh, strong and booming throughout the quiet coffee shop. They had met up on Saturday in order to give each other moral support as they prepared the test questions for their respective finals and doing other general finals-prepping tasks, and Martin was finding that absolutely none of that was happening. “Jon hasn’t gone soft until he takes off his suit jacket.”

Martin made a typo in his review, typing Jon’s name instead of the poet this question was focusing on. He resisted the urge to bang his head on the tabletop.

“That’s a fair point, Tim, I have to admit,” Sasha said, tapping her mechanical pencil against her chin. “However, we all know Jon’s perpetual scowl” - she paused to mimic it, quite well, Martin thought - “has begun to disappear. But only around one man, our favorite man.” She made a big sweeping gesture, pointing the eraser of her mechanical pencil at Martin. “One Martin Blackwood.”

“He has been looking quite  _ fond  _ lately, hasn’t he?” Tim said thoughtfully, and Martin felt his cheeks grow hot.

“We’re supposed to be working,” he said.

“They’re even starting to sound like each other,” Sasha said. “I rest my case.”

“Why are you two so obsessed with this?” Martin asked, throwing his hands up. “Really, nothing is going on with me and Jon.”

“Exactly,” Tim said, tapping his finger against his nose. “This has been our favorite will-they-won’t-they story of the year. Even better than those cheesy American reality shows.”

“The  _ year?”  _ Martin asked. They’d only started openly discussing the relationship, or lack thereof, between him and Jon for the past couple of weeks.

“Now, honestly, I know you two have the potential to torture us all for, like three years, maybe even four, before finally realizing,” Sasha said, holding her hands up. “And I respect that. However, Melanie said Georgie said she thinks Jon is getting soft because of you, and I think that’s speeding up the timeline.”

“Why does Georgie-?”

“Jon wouldn’t know a feeling if it hit him with a brick,” Tim said, and Sasha nodded.

“Yes, but Melanie says Georgie forces Jon to talk through his feelings.”

“I feel as though this is a breach of privacy?”

“Oh, then maybe it’ll only take  _ two  _ years then.”

“I am not waiting that long,” Sasha said, rolling her eyes. She turned her gaze to Martin. “Invite him to our end of the year drink-a-thon.”

“I.” Martin stopped. “I was going to do that anyway.”

Tim pretended to wipe a tear. “He’s grown up so fast.” He leaned against Sasha, pretending to wipe even more tears, and Sasha patted him sympathetically.

“We’ll have an empty nest soon enough,” she said, nodding sagely.

“For the millionth time,” Martin said, backspacing a keysmash that had been tacked on to the end of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, “nothing is happening between Jon and me. We’re just friends.”

“God,” Tim said, sitting up straight and sharing a look with Sasha. “I can’t wait for the end of the year drink-a-thon.”

  
  


-

  
  


When Martin invited Jon to the ‘end of the year drink-a-thon,’ he’d thought he was joking. However, when he showed up at the bar to find Melanie cackle-laughing every two seconds and Tim in various states of undress, he realized Martin had not been joking. He wondered if it was their goal to get kicked out of the pub. He wondered if all high school teachers were this unhinged.

He slid into the booth next to Martin, and the entire table exploded into greetings much more excited than they ever had sounded before. 

“A three-piece suit and the gloves to a  _ drink-a-thon?”  _ Sasha asked, the only hints that she’d been drinking a light blush on her cheeks and a slight lilt in her voice. “God, Jon, do you ever let loose?”

“He’s not wearing a tie,” Tim pointed out, who was also not wearing a tie. Or a shirt.

“You guys should’ve seen him in college,” Georgie said, and Jon shot her a look. She ignored it. “He wore mesh -  _ mesh -  _ and those stylish clunky boots that the kids like these days. You know, he even had piercings on-”

“I was a truly  _ uninteresting _ university student,” Jon interrupted, feeling his cheeks flush. 

“You were the lead singer of a pop punk band,” Martin pointed out, and Jon gave him a look as well.

“So were a lot of other people.”

“They probably weren’t as good as you, though,” Martin said, and Jon felt something warm curl around his chest. He opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and then promptly floundered.

“Yes, well-”

“Damn right,” Georgie interrupted, raising her glass. She sighed nostalgically, placing her chin in her hands and pouting at Jon. “Come on, Jon. Let’s get the band back together. We’ll play U2 and My Chemical Romance covers just like old times. It’ll be so fun.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if we peer pressure you into it?” Sasha asked.

“I have not had even one sip of an alcoholic beverage,” Jon said, lowering his head into his hands. He heard Martin breathe out a little laugh beside him. He felt his lips quirk up despite himself.

“Picture this,” Tim said, holding up his fingers in a rectangle in front of his eyes. “Georgie on drums. Sasha and Melanie on bass. Martin on” - he hiccuped - “on keyboard. Me on lead guitar. And Jon on vocals.” He dropped his fingers, holding up his arms as if expecting praise to roll in.

“I have an even better idea,” Sasha said, shaking her head. “Georgie on drums. Melanie on bass. Me on lead guitar. And you three” - she pointed to each of the boys in turn - “are the singing boy band heartbreaker trio.”

“Yes,” Melanie said. “Ladies and gents everywhere falling to their knees in front of the singing prowess of…” She trailed off, her eyebrows furrowing. “Simstokewood. Jonmartim.” Her eyes widened.  _ “Jonmartim,” _ she repeated, as if this was some revelation.

Martin slid his half-full glass of wine closer to Jon. 

“I can hear the fanfiction being written already,” Sasha said as Georgie high-fived Melanie for the apparently revolutionary term ‘Jonmartim.’

Jon downed the rest of Martin’s wine.

He lasted a solid hour and a half before he had to take a break, excusing himself to the bathroom. He didn’t really actually have to go, per se, but there was only so much noise and laughter he could handle.

The bathroom of the pub wasn’t that much quieter, but the music was less oppressive, and the din of all the Friday night bar-goers was safely behind the graffitied-on wooden door. Standing in front of one of the dirty mirrors above the sinks, Jon took a deep breath, taking off his gloves and tucking them into his jacket pocket before running the faucet and splashing water onto his face.

When he looked back up into the mirror, he saw his own reflection looking back at him, and he looked… Well, it looked like he was having a good time. There was a weird light in his eyes, and there was a strange sort of perpetual smile on his face. 

As soon as he realized it, his eyebrows furrowed and the smile dropped. He was having fun, he realized. He was having fun, and it was because those people kicking up noise and laughter in the corner booth all while downing spirits like they were eighteen were his coworkers and, unbelievably, his friends. His  _ friends. _

The door to the bathroom opened, and Jon choked off the weird laughter that had begun to bubble up from his throat. He swiped his hand over his eyes and looked into the mirror to see Martin in the doorway, staring at his hands. That were exposed. As in, not covered by his gloves, like they always were.

Jon froze.

Martin froze.

Jon unfroze long enough to take his gloves out from his pocket, stuffing his right hand - scarred, ugly - out of view. He slid his left hand into its respective glove, and that seemed to stimulate Martin’s tongue.

“Er, hi,” he said, still staring at Jon’s hands.

“Hi,” Jon responded, feeling his walls go up. 

“I just came to check in on you,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. His eyes found Jon’s, and Jon felt all the questions Martin was holding back behind that gaze. “Wondered if you were alright.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, still looking at him through the dirty mirror. He was afraid to turn around, to face Martin and all his earnestness. “Well, I just. Needed a break, I suppose. I was just about to head back out.”

“Oh,” Martin said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s good. We all missed you.”

“I haven’t been gone that long.”

Martin shrugged a little sheepishly. “Yeah, well.”

They stared at each other.

“Do you…”

Jon braced himself.

Martin chewed on his bottom lip. He wiped his hands on his jeans. He took a deep breath, and he smiled. “Do you want me to buy you a drink?”

Jon let out a sigh of relief that was so powerful it almost felt like love. He felt a laugh fall out of his mouth, and he turned around to face Martin. “Yeah,” he said, and he ran a hand through his hair, for once not caring how neat it stayed. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

When Jon left the bathroom, Martin was waiting with the others, and there was more alcohol waiting in his place. Jon downed it all in one go, let himself smile, and then ordered another.

  
  


-

  
  


“Jon, I really need you to tell me your flat number,” Martin said, dragging a staggering Jon down the street.

They’d left the drink-a-thon early due to the fact that Jon had taken the drink-a-thon perhaps a little too seriously, especially after… whatever had happened in the bathroom. He hadn’t really acted very drunk, but midway through a game of shots he’d been playing with Tim, he’d leaned over to Martin and whispered, “I think you need to take me home. I can’t feel my knees.”

Martin, all things considered, had taken being sultrily whispered to by the apparently way-more-drunk-than-he-looked object of his affections quite well, and had made some sort of flimsy excuse for the both of them that he knew they all saw through immediately. Especially when, as they left, Jon had slung his arm around his shoulder.

It was in an attempt to stand, but he’d done it so casually and smoothly that all four of them - Sasha, Tim, Georgie,  _ and  _ Melanie, who couldn’t even  _ see  _ but still apparently could sense what was happening - gave Martin a thumbs up.

So he was taking Jon home. Where absolutely nothing would happen except a friend caring for a friend, of course.

Jon mumbled his flat number, and when Martin asked for the keys, Jon fumbled around in his pockets until he produced the key, pressing it into Martin’s hands. His fingers were gloved, just like they always were, but Martin remembered the sight of his bare hands in the bathroom, and he full-body blushed like some sort of repressed Victorian maiden.

He was pathetic, truly.

Jon’s flat, as it turns out, was quite plain. There weren’t many pictures or anything, save for one with Georgie and another hanging front and center of the living space of Jon and an elderly woman. There were books stacked around the place, but there didn’t seem to be an order to them that Martin could tell.

He deposited Jon on the couch, and Jon made a contented sort of humming noise, staring at the photo of himself and the elderly woman on the wall. He suddenly looked very sad.

“Let’s get you some water,” Martin said, beginning to walk over to the kitchenette. Jon’s hand reached out and took hold of the edge of his sweater, and Martin stopped, feeling his heart leap up to his throat. Jon wasn’t looking at him, still staring at the photo. Martin cleared his throat. “Er, Jon?”

After a long moment, Jon seemed to tear his eyes away from the photo, looking to his right hand clutching the edge of Martin’s sweater and then looking up to Martin’s face. His eyes were dark and full of an emotion that Martin couldn’t quite name. “You didn’t ask,” he said, voice soft.

“What?” Martin asked, and Jon blinked at him. He let go of his sweater. “Okay,” Martin said slowly, taking gentle steps back from Jon and toward the kitchenette. “I’m gonna get you some water now, alright?”

Jon nodded, looking back to the photo.

Martin quickly grabbed a glass from the cabinets and filled it up with the tap, returning to find that Jon had removed his gloves and his suit jacket. Martin fought to keep himself rational. Really, Jon was still wearing more layers than the average person after a full night of drinking. It wasn’t like he was naked or anything.

Except he kind of  _ was.  _

“Here’s the water,” Martin said, handing Jon’s ungloved hands the glass of water. Jon took it, his scarred hand wrapping gently around the glass. He didn’t drink from it, though. He simply stared at it. 

Martin sat down next to him on the couch, watching Jon stare at his hand and the glass of water. The scars looked… Bad. All over his hand and going up under his shirtsleeve. They looked like burn scars, twisted and warped.

Even still, his hands - both of them - were elegant, just like Martin had imagined they’d be. He’d realized that even at the bathroom in the bar earlier; that’s why he’d froze for so long. He’d finally seen a part of Jon that he’d always hidden so carefully, and it was beautiful. 

He knew, even at the bar, why Jon probably went through great pains to wear the gloves. The scars on his right hand were hard to ignore, and, even if Martin saw nothing wrong with them, they probably meant something to Jon. They were probably a reminder of something painful, and Martin understood wanting to hide the things that make you hurt.

“Jon,” Martin said gently after a few minutes of silence. Jon turned his dark eyes to him, mournful and deep. “You have to drink the water, Jon.”

“That would be smart, wouldn’t it?” Jon asked, his lips turning up in a wry smile as he looked back down at the glass of water. His words were still slurred. 

For a moment, Martin was sure they would spend another few minutes of staring at the water and not actually drinking it, but then Jon raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. He looked at Martin.

“Everyone always asks, you know,” he said. Martin furrowed his eyebrows. “When they see.” He looked down at his scarred hand and then back up to Martin.

“Oh.” A jolt of sadness pushed through Martin’s chest. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry for things too much,” Jon said.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Despite being so drunk that he couldn’t feel his knees twenty minutes ago, Jon still managed to give him a look. Martin laughed.

“Do you want to know?” Jon asked once Martin had looked back at him.

“Well,” Martin said, thinking it over for a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter if  _ I  _ want to know. What matters is if  _ you  _ want to tell me.”

Jon seemed to think about that like it had never occurred to him before. He took another sip of his water. “Hm,” he hummed. “I think…” He trailed off, glancing at the photo on the wall before looking back at Martin with perhaps the most sincere expression Martin had ever seen on him. “I think I do want to tell you.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Well, you know. You  _ are  _ drunk right now. Maybe you should wait until morning.”

“Right,” Jon said, nodding solemnly. “Of course.” A thought seemed to occur to him. “Are you going to be here in the morning?”

Martin felt his heart jump up to his chest. “Do you want me here in the morning?”

“Yes,” Jon said, without even a hint of hesitation.

“Okay,” Martin said, feeling a little overwhelmed. “You should probably get to bed.”

“Yes,” Jon said again, nodding. “I would also like to brush my teeth, I think.”

Martin felt fondness crawl through his bones. “Okay. Go do that, then.”

“Right.” Jon sat for a moment longer. “My knees,” he said, looking over to Martin. “I still can’t feel them.”

“Okay,” Martin said, taking the glass of water from Jon’s hand and helping him stand up. “I’ll help you to your bathroom, but you have to brush your teeth and change on your own, deal?”

“I would never expect you to help me brush my teeth,” Jon said, making a very serious face.

“Of course,” Martin said. “Silly of me to even suggest the idea.”

“Extremely.”

He left Jon in the bathroom with an old t-shirt and a pair of striped pajama pants, standing awkwardly in the bedroom for a moment before walking out into the living room to fuss about in refilling up the glass of water despite it still being relatively full. When he returned, Jon was sitting on the bed, and Martin felt like he should be shielding his eyes because Jon was wearing a  _ t-shirt  _ and  _ pajama pants  _ and his  _ hair was down.  _

“Martin,” Jon said, blinking at him like he was very pleased to see him there. “Hello.”

“Hello, Jon,” Martin greeted, fighting past his desire to stare at Jon’s bare arms to hand Jon the glass of water. “You can’t lay down until you drink all of this.”

Jon took the glass and looked at him for a moment, a strange softness in his eyes. “You’re very nice, Martin,” he said, and then he went about drinking the water. When he’d finished, he handed the glass back to Martin, and Martin set it on the bedside table.

“Okay, now it’s time for you to go to bed,” Martin said, and Jon nodded, yawning. He pulled back the covers and climbed underneath them, pulling them up to his neck. He stared at Martin with soft, dark eyes. “Do you want me to turn off the lights?” Martin asked.

“Martin, I think I have feelings for you,” Jon said, his words muffled by the comforter pulled up over his mouth, and Martin quite nearly had a heart attack. He stuttered out half words and nonsenses before swallowing down his panic and regaining a fraction of control.

“You. You are still drunk,” he said, and Jon seemed to think for a moment.

“Yes, I think so,” he finally said, looking back at Martin. “Why does that matter?”

“You should probably wait until morning for any sort of-of  _ declarations  _ as well,” Martin said, and Jon nodded.

“That does seem smart,” Jon said, and he looked so  _ soft  _ laying there in the bed that Martin couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. Jon made a startled little sound. “Martin-”

“In the morning,” Martin said, turning around and hurrying over to the light switch. “Goodnight, Jon,” he said, flicking it off.

“Goodnight, Martin.”

  
  


-

  
  


Jon woke up with a splitting headache. He sat up, rubbing his forehead and cursing under his breath.

For a blissful moment, he remembered nothing of the night before.

And then it came back to him, and he remembered. He remembered Martin, and he remembered making an absolute  _ fool  _ out of himself. He groaned, flopping back onto the bed and covering his eyes with his hands.

He wanted to throttle himself. He wanted to throttle Martin. For. For being so  _ nice  _ and  _ likable. _

Georgie was going to give him hell. Same with the rest of them, he supposed. 

When he finally managed to pull himself out of bed, he found a refilled glass of water on his bedside table along with a couple of painkillers. Jon downed both like his life depended on it.

He crept out of his room, remembering his drunken wish for Martin to be there in the morning. But when he got out to the living room, Martin was nowhere to be found. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or elated.

Elated because he wouldn’t have to face Martin after being a complete drunken fool. Disappointed because he  _ really wanted  _ to face Martin after being a complete drunken fool. He rubbed his forehead. He felt quite foolish.

Only a minute later, his front door was opening, and Martin was walking in, stopping short in his tracks when he saw Jon standing in the middle of the living room.

“Good morning,” Martin said, and Jon became suddenly aware of how he was dressed. He felt strangely exposed.

“Good morning,” Jon replied. Martin took a step closer, and Jon noticed the bag of what smelled like breakfast in his hands.

“Erm. How are you feeling?” Martin asked tentatively, and Jon snorted before he could stop it.

“Sober,” he said.

“Ah. Well. That’s usually how it is.”

“Right.”

They stared at each other.

“I brought breakfast,” Martin said, holding up the bag.

“I’ll make tea,” Jon replied.

Jon went into the kitchenette to begin making the tea, and Martin set the bag onto the little table that served as an eating table, taking out what looked like breakfast pastries. They said nothing to each other until they were sitting opposite of each other, breakfast and tea finished.

“I have to apologize,” Jon finally said, tucking his hair behind his ears. “My behavior last night was…” He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely. “Well. I apologize that you had to see that.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Martin said, and Jon felt his cheeks flush. They looked at each other, and Martin bit his lip. “Do you, um, remember all the things you said?”

Jon felt his flush grow worse. “Yes.”

“Do you.” Martin cleared his throat. Jon noticed how red his cheeks were getting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Well.” He stopped. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Martin said. He looked at Jon expectantly.

Jon felt his heart beat quicken in his chest, and he attempted to discern where to begin. He glanced over at the photo of him and his grandmother on the wall of his living room, and he felt the words fall out of him.

“My grandmother died a couple of years ago. In a house fire. I was there.” He saw Martin’s expression twist, and Jon looked down at his hands in an attempt to focus himself. “She was the one who raised me, and I cared about her very much. It was late, that night, and I was going for a surprise visit. I just wanted to see her, you know. The house was already on fire.”

He paused, and Martin reached tentatively for Jon’s hand, his right hand. “You don’t have to,” he said gently, and took a deep breath.

“I want to,” he said, and Martin nodded. He continued. “The Brigade was already there, but I somehow got past them. I don’t really remember how. My grandmother’s room was at the back of the house, and the fire was bad there. Her- the doorknob burned. I remember how it hurt, but I twisted it anyway. There was a wall of fire between us. I reached my hand for her, and her hand found mine. She gave me a tight squeeze, through all that fire, and then I woke up in the hospital. My grandmother hadn’t made it.”

“Jon,” Martin said, sounding broken and soft, and Jon stared at their conjoined hands. He wondered at the feeling swirling inside his chest that he’d felt for months now - that feeling of safety. “I’m sorry you had to go through something like that.”

“I…” He trailed off, looking back up at Martin. “I am, too.”

“I’m glad you told me. That you trusted me with this,” Martin said, rubbing his thumb gently over his scars. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Jon said, furrowing his eyebrows and watching Martin’s thumb move softly, lovingly. “But saying it outloud. It helps, you know. Especially with people I…” He trailed off, lifting his and Martin’s conjoined hands and lacing their fingers together. Martin’s breath caught in his throat. “With people I feel safe with.”

“Oh,” Martin said, and Jon looked at his face to find his expression broken in a way that seemed a little overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry, I know that’s-”

“No, I just. I didn’t know.” He paused, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I just didn’t think. I suppose I didn’t think you felt so. Comfortable. With me.”

“I.” Jon thought about it. “I wasn’t. Not at the start. You made me  _ un _ comfortable.”

Martin let out a breathy sort of laugh.

“But something changed,” Jon continued. “I don’t know when, but it changed. Spending time with you, hearing about your students, all the poetry you talk about. I like that very much.”

“Oh,” Martin said. He looked down at their hands before looking back up at Jon. There was something very soft in his eyes. “Well. I like how focused you are when you work. And how you say funny things and try to keep a straight face, but then you start to smile because you just can’t help it. And your hands, and your weird, strangely enunciated laugh. I like your voice and those old videos of you singing even if you hate thinking about them. I like how bland your name is and how not-bland you are, even though you try your hardest to be, and I-”

“You seem to have thought about this a lot,” Jon said, feeling strangely called out in the best sort of way. And then he processed what Martin had said. “Do you really think my name is bland?”

“There’s not even an ‘h’ in the Jon bit to spice it up visually,” Martin replied, as if he’d thought about this very much.

“Well.” Jon said. “Martin K. Blackwood is a very fancy name for someone who wears sweater vests every day.” Martin blinked.

“Do you really think my name is fancy?” he asked.

“It sounds like a pretentious poet’s name,” Jon replied, and Martin blushed. “I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

“Yes, well, I’m taking it as one, so there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Jon laughed, a full hearty sound. For the first time in a long while, he felt like himself. He brought their hands up to his mouth, and he pressed a kiss to Martin’s knuckles.

“Thank you, Martin,” he said, and Martin made a few flustered noises.

“For?” he finally asked, his cheeks a very nice shade of red.

“For…” Jon thought for a moment. “For introducing yourself to me.”

“Oh,” Martin said, seeming to fight back a smile. “Well. You’re welcome, Jon. You’re very welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends it's currently 6am and i haven't slept. i needed to get this out of my system so badly. 
> 
> i dived headfirst into tma hell recently, and i don't know what my life was like before it. im sad and im yearning and im scared. thank u for coming to my ted talk.
> 
> i did not proofread this at all, and i would apologize for that except for the fact that i am not going to. thank u for ur time and i hope you enjoyed reading this i love u goodnight
> 
> EDIT: hello everyone now that i've slept and proofread this how are u doing well i hope  
> this is my first tma fic, and im really glad you lovely people have read it and commented on it i adore u thank u. im sure i'll post another tma fic at some point, possibly within this same au because i really like this au and didn't get to talk about everything i wanted to here, so i hope y'all will stick around for that one as well <3<3
> 
> the title of this fic is from a song called Name by Armors because my 6am no-sleep brain was desperately trying to figure out what to call this before i posted it and thought it was funny to pull a title from a song called name when this fic talks about names. also the fact that jon and martin were doomed to be SOFT and YEARNING from the moment they met. i am so funny, really
> 
> you can find me on twitter and tumblr @peachcitt if you'd like to be soft and yearn
> 
> thank you for reading!!! <3<3<3


End file.
